


After the Storm

by tollofthebells



Series: Art Trade and Gift Fics [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Battle, M/M, One Shot, Possible Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: Toward the end of a long and trying journey through the Storm Coast, Anon and Dorian encounter more than either of them bargained for.





	After the Storm

They hear the dragon before they see it. “Thunder,” Cassandra dismisses, grounded, logical as always and why shouldn’t it be thunder? It’s downpoured since they day they’d set foot on the drenched and washed-out shores of the Storm Coast, of _course_ it was thundering, when _hadn’t_ it been thundering? 

“Closer,” Cole says quietly as they trek through the rain-soaked rocks, “lower, wings beating on the water, flapping lower, nearing.”

Anon glances back around nervously. Cassandra pays no mind to Cole’s words; she never does, and even Dorian, following close behind, _as ever_ , seems unperturbed. 

“Forward, amatus,” he says, pointing ahead with his staff. “I’m quite determined to get out of this mess the southerners call ‘weather’ as soon as possible and into something warm and dry.” 

Anon offers a small smile at that, he’d been thinking more or less the same thing but of course Dorian would voice what everyone else would not, and so they press on, soaked-through boots into the slippery pebbles beneath them, the cave not nearly far enough behind their party and the warm camp much too far ahead. _All right then_ , he thinks, returning Dorian’s ever-certain sentiments with a short nod, and they press forward together, trudging on in the rain, tired, weary, but otherwise all right. For a long time, they continue in silence, pushing on, treading on, ever onward.

Until Cole stops. The thundering stops. Even the rain, for a short moment, seems to stop. Anon raises his hand in warning and they stand, waiting, silent but for the distant crash of waves somewhere in the far-off beach. 

“He’s here.”

The words have hardly left Cole’s mouth when the sky seems to open up above them, the rain plunging back down, resuming its assault on the coast as though finally granted permission by a higher power and a shock of lightning rips through the clouds above them, accompanied by a deafening shriek that sends their hands to their ears and tremors through the earth beneath them. 

“Cassandra,” Anon says, gripping his staff, willing his voice to stay strong. “That wasn’t thunder.”

She doesn’t have time to respond to him—none of them do—because in seconds the earth is shaking around them, the furious whirlwinds from the dragon’s beating wings sending pebbles and sand and salted rain ripping through the air, pelting the four of them with debris and it’s all Anon can do to hold his arms in front of him in defense. When at last it’s safe to lower them, he finds that Cassandra and Cole are already in the thick of the fight, targeting the beast’s hindquarters, determined, strategic. 

_Go_ , he thinks to himself, _it’s time_ , _okay_ , and he plants his feet firmly in the ground. The surrounding storm works to the dragons favor; _no matter_ , it works to his as well. Static crackles from the end of his staff, _good_ , he thinks, _good, let it build_ , and with another calculated motion, he has enough power to send a shockwave through the air, lightning against lightning, white hot on blue.

“Good shot, amatus!” Dorian calls over the roars of the dragon, flourishing his staff—elaborate and flashy as always—crafting flames in orange, yellow, white, swirls of warm color shining bright in the darkness of the rain, spellwork defying the walls of coastal rain falling upon them. He follows his fire blasts with spirit spells and Anon can’t help but grin at his comment, _it_ was _a good shot_ , he knows, though there’s no time for pride and complacency. They’ve work to do. 

And for a while, it’s just that: work. The four fall into a rhythm much as they would with any other foe—Cassandra in close, dealing deadly blows with sword and shield alike, Cole flitting about like a ghost in the rain, flashes of daggers sometimes the only part of him visible, Dorian and Anon working flames and spirits and lightning in tandem from afar. For a time, it works. For a time, they don’t miss a beat. For a time, they are flawless. 

But where the dragon weakens, it grows more wild, more desperate, more unpredictable in its moves. Cassandra takes the first hit, a thick set of claws against her rib cage, and she’s lucky for the armor she wears—it’s a hard scrape, a brutal blow but she is nothing if not resilient, and she pushes on, as ever. _Careful,_ he thinks, says nothing out loud; the thunder and the dragon’s roar—it’s impossible to tell one from the other now—are too deafening. Cole weaves in and out of the dragon’s legs, around it, in front and behind it like wind itself, always mere seconds ahead of the dragon’s snapping jaws. Anon is less worried for Cole; he’s quicker, defter than Cassandra is, always toeing the line of danger but never crossing it. 

“Not getting tired yet, are you Anon?” At the sound of Dorian’s voice, loud and clear against the surrounding commotion, he whips around to find the his love beside him, hurling fireballs from his staff, all flair and fashion, flashing a grin to Anon in spite of the battle raging on, in spite of their shared exhaustion, their shared loathing for the destitute weather they’ve found themselves in. 

“’Course not,” Anon replies, ducking beneath a shock of lightning and casting a strike of his own in turn. 

Regardless, Dorian finds time between casting to toss him a little blue bottle. “Liar,” he calls over the din with laughter in his voice. “Take this, then see if you can aim for the wings!” With that, he’s gone, off in a burst of flames and curses and conjured spirits. 

_Wings_ , Anon thinks; the strategy unfolds before him, with any luck they can get the beast out of the air for good, and the whirlwind vortexes might slow. He wipes the water and bits of spattered sand from his face with an already-soaked sleeve, bites the cork from the lyrium flask, downs it, and raises his staff once more. 

Aiming for the wings is, of course, much different in practice than it is in theory. It’s all Anon can do to dodge the first swing of the dragon’s tail; he manages a couple of shots afterward but spells cast from the ground are poorly aimed, weak. The second swing is an even narrower miss and in its rapid scrambling and thrashing, the dragon pulls up the debris and the wet dirt around them in a whipping force of wind. In the surrounding clamor, Anon thinks he hears Cassandra yell out but he can’t make out her words; he looks around him and yet there’s nothing to see but a cloud of darkness, blown-up sand and water and blurred flashes of white and blue electricity from the dragon, purple and red bursts from Dorian somewhere along the way. 

_This isn’t good._ The clouds don’t clear. He can’t see; _I can’t see_.

“Watch out!” Anon shouts into the blur. His voice is hoarse, it’s hardly audible over the thunderous roars of the dragon but he says it anyway. He _has_ to. Cassandra doesn’t need to hear it; she’s far too battle-worn, too seasoned to need a warning. Cole doesn’t need it either—he’s quick, he’s sly, he dodges oncoming attacks like sand through grasping fingers, he can take _care_ of himself but Dorian…Anon shakes his head. _He can take care of himself, too_ , and yet…

The third tail swing doesn’t miss. It hits him square in his core; the roaring wind and dragon shrieks around him are deafening and yet he can hear the _crack_ in his ribs, the exhale of breath forced from his throat as he’s thrown backward to the ground violently, mercilessly. And as loud as it is around him, suddenly, he can’t hear. He can’t see. He can hardly _think_ but all his thoughts fall on one person only, _Dorian!_ he tries to call out, but he can’t find his voice, can’t find his breath, _can’t find him._

 _This happened too fast_ , he thinks as darkness overtakes him.

_Dorian._

And at once, everything is black. Everything is silent.

_I’m sorry._

Later—it could be minutes, it could be _hours_ , he feels again. It’s just a tapping at first, the hazy feelings of fingers around his shoulder. Then a shake, a steady grip on his arm, and he can _hear_ , it’s all distant now, drowned out by an dull ringing in his head but he can hear it, the fight rages on, the dragon persists but the shrill yells from Cassandra and the clashes of Coles knives tell him his companions persist as well. It’s distant, it’s quiet, but it’s there.

“Anon!”

_Dorian?_

“ _Anon!_ ” He forces his eyes open. Everything is out of focus but his ears don’t lie—he knows this face anywhere. _Dorian_. “Amatus, please, are you all right?”

He forces himself up, _I can’t breathe_ , he tries to say but at once the feeling returns to his lungs and he chokes back water, sand, gulping for air. “Dorian!” he gasps at last.

When his vision clears at last, he finds his love before him, bright and untouched somehow, _clear_ , light, but Dorian nonetheless. “Are you all _right_ , amatus?” he repeats, reaching out toward his face, curling his fingers before him, and Anon nods.

“Yes,” he replies, his voice weak but _there_ , intact, “yes, I’m all right.”

Dorian grins in return. “Good,” he says, but when Anon blinks, rubs his eyes, he’s fading again, unfocused, distant. “Then so am I.”

And then he vanishes.

The battle continues.

“Dorian?” he whispers, but however subdued the sounds of the fighting had seemed just seconds ago, they _blared_ now. Everything is clear. Everything is loud. Everything hurts.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra screams, but he doesn’t look at her. “Anon, we need your _help!_ ” 

But he can’t, _where_ is _he?_ , can’t carry on without Dorian.

Behind him, somewhere, the dragon groans. He can hear the weak beating of wings, the battle—now Cassandra’s and Cole’s alone—at last nearing an end. The sand and rubble have settled around them, _Dorian_ , he thinks, _where have you gone?_

And there, in the distance, thrown back undoubtedly by the same hit has he’d been, the same horrible blow, is him. His love. His _amatus_.

“Dorian?” he breathes, heart racing, hands trembling as he scrambles over the gravelly terrain toward the body lying motionless under the continuing rainfall. “ _Dorian!”_


End file.
